Unlucky Number
by Neocolai
Summary: He was the unlucky number - the number thirteen. No help from a burglar would ever change that. Warning: very melancholic and a slightly depressing end. No tragic deaths, no slash.


He was always the unlucky number.

He was the thirteenth Dwarf, the one who was _supposed_ to remain behind and was only allowed to come through his mother's reluctance and Fili's bullying.

He was the one who let the pony's reins slip through his fingers, nearly losing his life and killing his own brother.

He was the one who kept Fili distracted from the ponies, disappointing Thorin and proving there was one more reason why he was irresponsible and reckless. Kili had only been trying to pass the time… tossing his runestone so high in the air that they had to search for it everywhere had been an accident. He even tried to make up for his foolishness by rescuing Bilbo, but Thorin made it clear with one gesture that he had messed up enough already – best not to worsen the score by getting their only burglar killed.

His luck seemed to take a turn for the better when they reached the plains. The wargs frightened him – they always had, nightmares of snapping teeth and vicious snarls causing him to bolt awake since he was very little – but Kili felt like he had made Thorin proud this time. No one was hurt and no "accidents" occurred. He had hoped everything would be fine.

Then the trail they had led them to the Elven kingdom, and he had spent the rest of the day hoping that Thorin's intense glower would not settle on him. Fili tried to assure him – comforting and insisting and nearly shouting in turns – that Thorin would never banish his nephew from the quest for any mistakes that he made, but Kili knew better. He was the unlucky number. It was only a matter of time.

Fili nearly died in the thunder battle. He said nothing to Kili after that, only held his brother close when he cried softly, and promised that he would never blame him for anything that happened.

When the Goblin King demanded the youngest and Ori was pushed forward, Kili almost flung himself into the goblins' hands to put an end to the miserable game of luck and chance. Dwalin held his arm in a bruising grip and Thorin negotiated for time, and Fili insisted long afterwards that it would have torn their Uncle apart if Kili had been chosen. Kili only nodded and leaned his head against his brother's shoulder, trying his best to believe it.

Thirteen struck hard again when Kili's foot jammed into a snarl in the collapsed tree and Fili spent harrowing minutes freeing his brother before he could lose his grip and fall. Thorin was hurt and Bilbo was praised, and Kili ran with a heavy heart and sobs pent tightly behind a clenched jaw.

He half expected a warg or Beorn to kill them before the night was out, and by the time breakfast arrived without incident Fili had to hold his brother's arm lest his trembling upset his tankard and spill milk all over the table.

Mirkwood confirmed Kili's fears all over again. He hyperventilated twice inside the spider's web, certain that at least half the company was already dead. He had felt Thorin's hand on the back of his neck when he was shoved out of the way of the largest spider, and he knew what it had cost his Uncle to rescue him. He latched his arms around Fili's neck and almost cried like a child when he saw his brother alive and well once more.

It was only natural that he was the one to be caught weaponless and alone when the spiders struck again. He should have stayed silent – should have allowed himself to be the sacrifice and end their string of bad luck once and for all – but fear overwhelmed him and he could not help but scream for his brother. A forest Elf – a _woman_ no less – rescued and humiliated him and he decided later that it was to her benefit she had not given him a weapon. He might have missed his target or tripped over his own clumsy feet, and neither her skill nor beauty would have kept her from being killed.

Tauriel never once looked at him like he was the unlucky number. She was his star and light and Kili began to cling to that fragile thread, hoping that maybe he could gain her compassion and earn freedom for his Uncle and brother.

Bilbo was their savior in the end, but when Kili saw their frail luck spinning out of control he did not hesitate to throw himself into the fray. He did not fear the Orcs – bad luck seemed to avoid him personally and attack his family instead – and he knew that their only hope was for someone to reach that lever.

He never thought that fate would thwart him by the bite of an Orc's arrow instead. He barely comprehended sinking to the ground, waves of icy fire consuming his leg and numbing his mind. He had failed, and his incompetence would kill everyone he loved. He should never have come.

_She_ rescued them again, his fire and his light and his love, and her boldness gave him courage. If Kili was the thirteenth number, then Tauriel must surely be his lucky star. He nearly let himself stay on that rock, praying that without him Thorin could go on and succeed in his quest, but Fili would not go on alone, and Kili could not turn his back on his brother.

He knew it was only a matter of time after that.

He tried to keep up in spite of his injury – tried not to let the bad luck show through yet again. For Fili's sake he pushed on with every ounce of his strength, even though he could barely feel his leg for the numbness and he wanted nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and sleep through the winter.

The skid of a boot, the clatter of weapons, the touch of cold steel against his neck… Kili met Thorin's eyes and saw his Uncle's disappointment, and he hoped that the ground would open up and swallow him.

_I'm sorry…._

Snatches of memory were all he had after that. He could not remember how Thorin negotiated with Lake Town, or even putting on the clumsy armor that the mayor provided for the Company. All Kili saw was the sternness in Thorin's eyes, gentled by compassion yet unmoving in their rebuke. Kili had brought this upon them. From the very beginning, disaster had followed in his wake. He was the unlucky number thirteen, and it was time them to cut him free of his contract.

He did not waste his breath to argue when Thorin sent him away.

Shadows and snarls and Orcish sneers and the burning cold in his leg stole all else from his mind. He lost an entire week of memory save for two things: the curse had followed him and nearly brought tragedy to Bard's peaceful family, and his Lady of Light had found him and saved him once again.

But he never had the chance to see Erebor's halls.

He never knew if Thorin had escaped the curse, or if Kili's bad luck had followed him after all.

The night exploded in fire and death and Kili could only cover Tilda's head and weep, for he knew that this was all his fault.

He was the unlucky number. The number thirteen. And nothing he did right would ever let him escape his fate.


End file.
